The walls are built of kegs in this city, streets of dirty laundry. The primates run wild, veggie burrito gangs and kids in trendy shirts roaming from music venue to music venue, kids in search of a Godot and women and men with a loose whatever. I’m drinking cheap beer.
I’m here, I’m walking around this city and I’m here and drinking cheap beer. I don’t know why they wait for me and don’t see me and laugh at me without knowing it’s me. It’s me, dammit. I don’t know why the sky hasn’t opened up and sucked me out of this place with a suckful disdain for what I am and what it is I’m doing. I think it hates me, but maybe I’m just invisible. Maybe I’m Godot, and I’m not here. Maybe I’m not here on the street with my cheap beer.
I’m not here on the street with my cheap beer, and the dirty laundry starts creeping up my legs, growing around them like vines and I can’t move and I can’t walk and I’m not walking and I’m still. I’m just standing here and still and watching the kids walk around me, and hoping that one of the veggie burrito gangstas has a knife and can see me. I’m hoping that one sees me and has a knife and cuts me free, and I’m hoping that maybe I’m sucked into the sky. I’d stay there, a sucked figment, just some kind of Godot in the invisible sky. I’d stay there, I think.